


Walkers With The Dawn

by WrittinInStone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2018-07-14
Packaged: 2018-10-08 01:11:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10374480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WrittinInStone/pseuds/WrittinInStone
Summary: AU. Hermione Granger has worked harder than anyone will ever know to keep her crush and the Boy-Who-Lived, Neville Longbottom, alive during their tenure at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Now, a 7th year, she’s determined that nothing will stop her from finally admitting to Neville how she feels and having the best year ever. Too bad life never goes as planned.





	1. Nox

**[Nocks]** Turns off the light produced by Lumos.

Hermione Granger

Of all the things I expected in my final year of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, this was not one of them.

I grit my teeth as, with a flick of my wand, clothes begin to fly from the trunk and fold themselves neatly into the chests at the end of the bed. I am painfully aware that he is doing the same a mere door away. Honestly, I should have expected something like this to happen, what with the way my luck has been going lately.

First, I find out that Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived and the object of an enduring crush that I cannot seem to rid myself of, is in love with Ginny Weasley, the sister of my other best friend, Ron Weasley. What’s worse is the way I found out; stumbling upon the pair of them snogging like the morrow would not come in a compartment on the Hogwarts Express. It was absolutely horrid; witnessing their embrace and watching them hastily pull away from one another. Seeing the bare trace of Ginny’s lipstick on Neville’s mouth and the happiness and slight gleam of triumph in Ginny’s eyes felt like being hit with a particularly nasty curse. My heart made an extremely painful and speedy descent to my belly. I’m pretty sure it’s still on the train, so quickly did it drop.

Then, I discover that Draco Malfoy has not been expelled for his horrible deeds of last year and is free to the roam the castle as though he hadn’t led Neville into a trap that had almost gotten him—and me—killed. Then, to top off an already horrible day, I discover that Harry Potter has been named Head Boy!

I honestly don’t understand. How, exactly, does Hogwarts justify making someone like Harry Potter Head Boy? Isn’t the Head Boy and Head Girl chosen based on academic achievement, one’s reputation as a student, and the possession of a sound personality? There must be another criteria for selection because Potter’s ranking in all such categories are abysmal. In all my life, I’ve striven to give everyone I’ve ever met a chance. Knowing that, I can honestly say that Harry James Potter is the bane of my existence. He is a Slytherin, one of its rulers, and a walking stereotype of everything one has come to expect from that House.

Our ‘relationship’ started the first time I stepped into Diagon Alley, my very first foray into the Wizarding World. I can still remember how I felt when I beheld that magical place for the first time. I was filled with so much wonder and excitement that I could’ve exploded. I can still see the sea of wizards and witches bustling in cloaks of every color. I can still smell the mouth watering aroma of fresh food wafting from the shops. I can still hear the screech of animals I had only seen in books add their voices to the clutter and liveliness that was Diagon Alley.

I was so eager, happy and exhilarated to enter this strange world of which I was now apart. It’s hard to convey how thrilling it was to learn that I was a witch, that I had the power to use magic. It seemed like a whole new world had opened up to me, one that I could never have dreamt of. Suddenly the possibilities were endless.

But everything changed when I ran into one Hadrian James Potter at Ollivander’s. It was my introduction to the dark and not-so-hidden side of my new world. It was a mere glimpse into the horrifying prejudices of the world to which I now belonged.

Ollivander’s was wondrous to me. Upon entering, I stood and gawked at the incredible surreality of it all. It looked like a trainer’s shop, which was amusing in and of itself. Of all the things I expected, seeing wands tucked into cylindrical cardboard boxes was not it. But it didn’t stop my amazement. Finally, I was going to get a wand! I read about them; they were the conductors through which wizards and witches used their magic. The acquisition of a wand would mark my official entrance into the wizarding world and I could not be more excited. If only my parents weren't delaying Ollivander! In truth, I was more than a little impatient. My parents were merrily drilling Ollivander about the sheer mechanics of using a piece of wood to control powerful forces such as magic, which was typical of them and would be quite acceptable if it were not delaying the choosing of my wand! But I could do nothing more than bear it. I knew that we would not be moving forward until my parents were good and satisfied. I am like them in that respect, so I force myself to remain calm. Once I attained my wand, that would be it. I would never be without it, so I could wait a few moments more.

I continued to wander around, soaking in every sight possible until I crossed something. I paused and looked back with wide eyes; had I walked through an invisible barrier? There was a passage about it in the eighth chapter of Hogwarts, A History, but I never thought I'd experience it so soon! Blinking, I forcibly pulled my mind back to the present which was easy when I realized where I was. It was Ollivander's workshop. It was an incredibly massive room, painted blue and bronze with the symbol of a raven in the middle of the wall; the symbol of Ravenclaw House from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, according to what I've read.

On the far wall were tables stacked with various different logs of wood, all of which emitted energy. It was a strange and pulsing sensation that fascinated and alarmed me in turn. There were strange ribbons, feathers, and other items that I had no name for floating about, literally floating about everywhere. Yet after a moment's observation, I realized that they weren't just floating, they were surrounded by invisible bubbles of something. Were they being soaked? One section of the room housed what looked to be organs. Some were in jars, some hung from hooks as though being dried. Yet more were locked into glass chests. Even more amazing were the wands sitting on the table in the middle of the room. They were glowing. But the strange pulsing coming from the raw wood was nothing like as strong as what was coming from the completed wands. They almost felt alive. More than anything else, it was the heavy presence of magic hanging over the room that awed me more than anything. It was as though events of great magical significance were occurring right in this room.

I stood there for a moment, staring, my heart nearly flying at what I was seeing. I wanted, no needed, to know more. In front of me were the pieces to creating wands, I just needed a little more knowledge to thread it together. I absorbed the sight in front of me for a moment longer before leaving. I was pretty sure I wasn't supposed to be in this place and I didn't want to cause trouble for my parents. Besides, I had seen enough to imprint the sight in my mind forever. Returning the way I came, I smiled as I crossed the barrier again. Soon, I returned to the front of the shop and contented myself with exploring there.

I was near the wand displays when I saw it. Displayed near a shelf was a book sitting on a pedestal and covered in a thick layer of dust. My interest immediately piqued, I made a beeline for it. Wrinkling my nose at the absolutely abhorrent state that book was in, I delicately wiped the dust off with my hand before opening it gingerly. The Magicke of Wands, it proclaimed proudly on the front page, and I smiled at the luck of it all. Now, I could connect the pieces. As I begin to read, I was disappointed to discover that it was truly the basics in wandmaking, but it was still quite informational. The secrets of wandmaking was just that, a secret, and I'd have to take any number of oaths, as well as apprentice under a wandmaker before discovering all the wonderful knowledge that I was seeking.

Bugger.

That’s when he entered. I didn’t notice him at first, so absorbed was I with The Magicke of Wands.

"Excuse me, do you know where Ollivander is?"

I nearly jumped at the sound of his voice, startled by the sudden interruption. I turned to see a boy standing there. He was short with black hair and beautiful green eyes. He wore long black robes, and had angular glasses perched on his nose. But what was odd was the lightning shaped scar on his forehead. My eyes narrowed on it for a moment. There weren't many types of scars that remained on a wizard's body, simply because our magic rid us of most of them. The only ones that remained were usually those gotten before our first magical incident. But this scar was clearly different. It was deep and angry looking ... dark magic?

Steeling myself not to stare, I smiled at him and shrugged lightly. "He's somewhere around here with my parents. They shan't be too much longer, I hope."

His eyes narrowed on me and I was taken aback by the look there. It was sharp and unflinching.

"You're Muggleborn," he said slowly, his striking green eyes boring into me as he spoke. It wasn't a question.

My eyes widened.

"Muggleborn?" I repeated, more than a little unnerved by his behavior. He was so intense. At the time, I remember thinking that I had never met anyone quite as piercing as this boy and it piqued my insatiable curiosity; who was he?

He studied me, eyes unblinking. "It means that you have non-magical parents," he answered, eyes running over me briefly. I frowned as he quickly took in my messy hair, dark skin and brand new robes ... and just as quickly dismissed them.

"What does that have to do with anything?” I asked cautiously, a sinking feeling in my stomach, like I already knew that I wasn't going to like what he said, "and how in the world were you able to tell that just by looking at me?"

"There's a hierarchy here in the wizarding world," he responded, ignoring my question, "and you are at the bottom of it."

I frown in confusion and growing upset at his words. What is he on about?

He shook his head at my reaction. "I suggest you educate yourself, Muggleborn," he said turning away. "It'll be harder for you if you don't. Better that you know your place now."

He looked at me and sniffed. "I think I'll come back later, when it's less crowded."

We were the only two people there.

He swept out of the door, making nary a sound as he disappeared, uncaring of the wreckage he left in his wake.

I was absolutely floored. Had that just happened? Did that really just happen? And a hierarchy? What did that mean? And what did he mean when he said I was at the bottom? I didn't read about any of this in my school books or in Hogwarts, A History. What in the world was he talking about? The next moments passed in a blur. To this day, I scarcely remember receiving my wand, a moment that I had been so passionate about before. All I remember was that suddenly, it was in my hand and I was staring into the smiling faces of my parents and Ollivander.

At my insistence, our very next stop was Flourish & Blotts. My parents were exasperated that I wanted to go to a bookshop although I'd already read and memorized my books. But they allowed me, as always. They had no inkling of the fear burning in my heart, of the hope that faltered with each step I took toward the shop.

The trip to Flourish & Blotts yielded more fruit on the subject than I was ready to handle. It was a very rude and very heartbreaking wake-up call. There were scores and scores of manuscripts and scrolls on the horrors of blood prejudices in the wizarding world. There were tales of wars that wiped out entire generations of people, tales of conflicts that spanned the whole of the wizarding world. Wizarding World Wars One and Two saw the end of not only millions of lives, but many different ancient branches of magic, all casualties in the fight to decide who had the right to practice magic.

It was beyond horrifying.

It changed me and little did I know that my interaction with the boy at the wand shop would shape my entire experience at Hogwarts. It was as though that moment in Ollivanders sealed my fate. It wasn’t enough that Potter had, in a way, shattered the innocence of my childhood, no, he wanted me to suffer. From the moment I stepped foot into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Harry Potter made every effort to make my life a living hell. It hadn’t been any overt attacks like the wholly unimaginative Draco Malfoy, no, his ridicule was much more subtle, the effects infinitely longer lasting. It was the quiet remark about my teeth here, the offhanded comment about my hair there, or the snide aside about my penchant to know the answer to every question under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear.

I have asked myself more times than I can count why Harry Potter’s words hurt me. I easily dismiss Malfoy’s words as hateful and unreasonable and I successfully ignore other students who regard me coolly because I’m Muggleborn, so why does his words sting? Maybe it’s because of his focused and intense mannerism, a gift, some would call it, but one that he uses to cut me down. Maybe it’s because a part of me realizes that there is the smallest grain of truth in his words, that I do have large teeth and untamable hair; that I am a well-known know-it-all. Maybe it’s because he says it so seriously, so calmly, as though he truly believes every word. Maybe it’s because he looks me in the eyes and says it, that he speaks the words as boldly as any Gryffindor would. I’ll probably never know the answer, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I will not allow Harry Potter to bring me down, not this year. This is my final year at Hogwarts and I’m determined that it will be different from all the other years. There will be no trolls, no lunatic Dark Lords and no embarrassing romantic episodes. Despite the absolutely horrid way it has started, this is going to be a normal year at Hogwarts. Well, as normal as can possibly be had in this school.

This will be my best year at Hogwarts School Witchcraft of Wizardry yet. I know it.

#*#*#*#*#*#

Well, this is it, the beginning of the end.

I nibble on a piece of sweet bread as I watch my fellow Gryffindors joke and interact jovially as though they haven’t a care in the world. All I have are cares and one of them is wondering where the time has gone. It seems like it was just yesterday that I was where the first years are now, taking that first, seemingly endless walk to the front of the Great hall, getting sorted into Gryffindor, meeting new friends and creating relationships that would only strengthen over the next six years.

Now, as I enter my seventh and final year of Hogwarts, the very things that used to be a comfort to me now elicit pangs of bittersweet sadness. While I’m excited about graduating and making my mark on the world, I’m sad that this is the last time we’ll all be together like this. Graduation is the true marker of childhood’s end. After this year each of us will be entering the adult world and going our separate ways. It’s enough to make me cry. I’ll miss all of my friends and the times we’ve spent in this castle. Nothing will ever quite compare to all the experiences I’ve had in this school and I will treasure every memory that I’ve created here for the rest of my life.

“A knut for your thoughts?”

Looking up, I meet the steady gaze of my best friend, Neville Longbottom, as he and my other best friend, Ronald Weasley, slide onto the bench on either side of me. I gaze at Neville with slightly narrowed eyes as the vision of Neville snogging Ginny on the Hogwarts Express appears before my vision, but I quickly and firmly put it away with a bit of Occulmency. Now is not the time to be bombarded with those negative emotions. They will be wrestled with in the comfort of my room, not in the Great Hall where I’m sharing the first meal of the year with my two best friends.

“Where have you two been?” I ask with a frown, knowing that their tardiness can only mean that they’ve been up to no good.

“Just picking on Malfoy,” Neville answers with an easy smile. “Now, tell me. Why the long face?”

Sighing, I respond. “Well, this is our last year and I was just thinking about how much I’ll miss everyone.”

Ron rolls his eyes. “That’s so you, Hermione,” he says as he begins to pile his plate high. “We’ve barely started our last year and you’re already thinking about the end. Just because we’re leaving this place doesn’t mean we won’t be together again.”

“Wow, Ronald,” I reply, eyebrows rising. “That’s surprisingly wise of you.”

“Always the tone of surprise,” he responds with a grin.

I return his smile before moving to place a much more sensible amount of food on my plate.

Ron is right, perhaps it’s a bit too early to be gloomy about graduation. We still have a whole year to go through, not to mention survive N.E.W.T.S. which will be the focus of this year. It will serve me better to focus on all the studying that I’ll be doing—and forcing Neville and Ron to do—before even considering graduation. I grimace at the thought and suddenly, the end of the year seems a very long way away.

“So,” Neville begins, after taking a particularly large bite of shepherd’s pie, “N.E.W.T.S.s are this year and I am completely unprepared for them, what with being worried about the Dark Lunatic and all. They say they get harder every year and I have to get at least an ‘Exceeds Expectation’ in Charms, Potions and Herbology if I want to become an Herbologist. Herbology won't be a problem, of course, but I barely passed Potions with a good enough grade in my O.W.L.s to take the N.E.W.T.s at all! How am I ever going to get an ‘E’ in Potions?” he moans, slumping in his seat.

“I know it’s been a rough go for you, mate,” Ron says sympathetically, “but we have one thing that other people don’t have …”

“Hermione,” Neville and Ron exclaim in unison, both of them beaming at me, teeth showing.

“You’ll help us, won’t you Hermione?” Ron asks, eyes wide with hope.

Rolling my eyes, I nod. “Yes, I’ll help you, but you two must promise to make an actual effort this time.”

“We will,” Neville agrees immediately, throwing me a dazzling grin and I hate the way my stupid stomach flips at his smile. Merlin, but it’s not like Neville is the most handsome guy in school! Why does my treacherous heart care for him so? Because he’s smart, brave, loyal and caring, my darned heart whispers. I ignore it as I huff to cover up my reaction to his smile. I know I’ve promised myself to tell him how I feel this year--well, at least I did before finding out that he was with Ginny--but that doesn’t mean that I have to give him any hints beforehand.

“Absolutely,” Ron seconds, offering me a smile as well.

I send him a glare. I want to be angry with both of them because I know their promises won’t hold up, but I can’t and after a moment I deflate and return their smiles. I’ve known these two much too long to be fooled by their words. They’ll work hard for a week and then Ron’ll go to back to thinking about nothing but Quidditch, and Neville’ll think about nothing but his precious plants. However, I want to give them a chance to change. Perhaps they’ll surprise me this year.

Or perhaps not, I sigh in exasperation, as I watch Neville and Ron dig into their food like beasts.

“Look,” Neville says, nodding toward the professor’s table, “Dumbledore’s speaking again. I thought we missed the opening speech …?”

“You did,” I reply, slowly taking a bite of my food, “I guess he wasn’t finished.” It’s not unusual for Dumbledore to speak again after the official welcoming speech. Last year, he stood and rattled off a long speech that sounded like a bunch of gibberish, until I realized he was saying all the words backwards. I expected everyone to give Dumbledore the same look I did, like the man had finally gone completely mad. Instead, everyone cheered and went back to eating, as though everything he said made perfect sense. I suppose, I shouldn’t be surprised that Dumbledore’s special brand of barminess is contagious. Ron has a flowered nap cap that looks suspiciously like Dumbledore’s flowered bonnet while Neville has taken a strange liking to sherbet lemons. It strikes an irrational fear into my heart. Will I suddenly develop an irresistible urge to knit?

Dumbledore raises his hand for silence and waits until the hall quiets down before speaking. “I know that all of you are comfortably—even uncomfortably—full,” the Headmaster says, his twinkling eyes glancing knowingly in the direction of Ron’s now miserable form, “but the night is not yet over. At this time, I am pleased to inform you that Hogwarts has recently accepted a transfer student from the incredibly prestigious An-Ki Institute of Alchemy and Enchantments.”

The Headmaster pauses at the sudden outbreak of murmuring, immediately raising his hand for silence once again. “I understand your excitement and confusion. It is not often that Hogwarts has such transfers, but I trust you will make her feel welcome and aid her as she seeks to adjust to this institution. As with all students who enter Hogwarts, she will now be sorted and placed into a house. Now, Hagrid, if you will?”

The doors of the Great Hall open and many stand, even as others lean over to see who enters. She’s short with dark skin and wide, dark brown eyes. Her hair is shaved on both sides, framing a mass of braids that can only be sitting atop her head through magical means. She has medium sized gauges in her ears, through which large hoop earrings swing. Completing the fascinating picture is a small septum ring peeking through her nostrils. She’s quite striking in her appearance, all of it serving to give her a unique beauty.

I’m not the only one who notices; the whispers increases as she walks down the isle. Her steps are unhurried, her posture straight, as she arrives at the front of the hall where Professor McGonagall stands with the Sorting Hat.

“Zola Keita,” Professor McGonagall announces before indicating that she sit.

The hall is quiet as the hat is placed on her head. It immediately comes to life. “Oh,” it says in delight, “it’s been quite some time since I’ve sorted a Keita …” It trails off and falls into silence, even as I contemplate its words. One thing is certain; Zola Keita is pureblood. What’s interesting is that she is from a different school, which must be in a different country, but her line is known by the Sorting Hat. It’s a mystery that elicits more questions: What does being a Keita mean and what is the An-Ki Institute of Alchemy and Enchantments? I thought I knew all the magical schools that existed; I researched them. So, why haven’t I ever heard of Zola Keita’s school? I can't help but be suspicious: New people never did spell good things for us.

Everyone is silent as we wait for the sorting hat's decision, until finally, it screams, "Hufflepuff!"

“She’s a Hufflepuff," Ron says, immediately dismissing her, and I quell the urge to tell him that Hufflepuff is as good as any other house, but the professors catch my attention. Their expressions are neutral, but there seems to be an air of excitement about them, one that only appeared after introducing Zola Keita. Indeed, Professors McGonagall, Flitwick, and even Snape look disappointed about the House designation even as Professor Sprout very nearly preens. Like all things at Hogwarts, there is more to this than meets the eye.

“You don’t reckon she’s here to kill me, do you?” Neville asks, only half jokingly, as we watch her make her way to the Hufflepuff table. Neville and I exchange a glance, mine being more sympathetic than anything because sadly, that certainly seems to be the trend.

"There are worse ways to go," Ron says with a distinctive male grin that makes me roll my eyes. Of course Ron would notice how pretty Zola is, even though his girlfriend, Luna Lovegood, is at the next table. I don't take it too seriously though. Ron is loony over Luna. I've actually never seen a more perfect couple. I summarily ignore the image of Neville and Ginny that pops up in my mind.

I stand just as Dumbledore finishes his closing remarks. Time to be Head Girl. I am moving toward the entrance when Neville pulls me to the side. He moves close and lowers his voice as students began to flow around us.

“Look, Hermione,” Neville begins, his body tense, his face showing his discomfort, “I’m sorry about earlier, with Ginny.”

I swallow hard, lips pressing together as I try to hide my trepidation. I had hoped that he would just pretend it hadn’t happened, but of course, Neville would never do that. He’s the absolute opposite of coward. Now, however, is one of the few instances when I wished he was the type to simply let things alone.

I force a smile onto my face. “Don’t let Potter catch you doing that. He’s liable to take points away.” Somehow, I can’t fix my mouth to tell him that seeing him practically devour Ginny was okay. He doesn’t notice the omission, of course.

He grimaces, his mind immediately zeroing in on the bane of his existence. “Damn, I forgot that prick was Head Boy. What was Dumbledore thinking?”

A fine question and this time, I allow a frown to blossom across my face. “I have no clue, Neville,” I respond, “perhaps you could ask him when you see him next?”

Neville nods, troubled. “I think I’ll do just that.”

An awkward silence follows. Although Neville apologized for his interaction with Ginny and we neatly changed the subject, it is like a hippogriff standing between us. I honestly don’t know what’s different. Neville’s had girlfriends in the past, all of whom I’ve been civil, if not warm, to. And it’s not like Ginny is a stranger. I’ve never been particularly close to the youngest and only female Weasley, but we are at least friendly towards one another. So, why does this feel so incredibly uncomfortable?

Choosing to end our suffering, I paste a smile on my face and bid Neville farewell before quickly moving out of the Great Hall. I am acutely aware that his eyes follow me every step of the way, but I resolutely ignore it. I have to fulfill my duties as Head Girl and I’m already late. Shaking off my encounter with Neville, I smile as reach the foyer where the first years are waiting.

The Slytherin and Ravenclaw first years, as well as the Slytherin and Ravenclaw Prefects are gone, taken by Potter no doubt. Of course he wouldn’t wait for me to show up so we could present a unified front. But then again, I shouldn’t have been late. With a sigh, I take quick note of where Zola Keita is before moving to stand between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff prefects to begin my spiel.

So far, this has been a horrendous start to the year. Hopefully, it’ll only get better.

#*#*#*#*#*#

It is in the quiet of the library that I bend over my textbooks, Advanced Runes for the Overachieving Scholar, Artful Arithmancy, and Alchemy for the Studiously Inclined.

It’s not any class assignment that I’m working on, but a private project that I decided to pursue after reading a particularly interesting passage in my Ancient Runes book.

I haven’t bothered to tell Neville or Ron about my extracurricular research. Merlin knows how they would react. The thought makes me smile. The notion of willingly studying for no reason other than my own knowledge and curiosity would absolutely horrify both of them. They already think I’m nutters for my decision to take eleven N.E.W.T.s but I’ve stood firm despite their protests. And it’s not easy, definitely not. It’s actually the hardest I’ve ever studied in my life, on the strictest schedule I’ve ever adhered to. But compared to facing all manner of magical enemies trying to kill Neville, flying a hippogriff to save Neville’s father in third year, and enduring constant harassment for being Muggleborn; spending a year merely studying for the many N.E.W.T.s I’m taking seems like a walk around the lake.

I am actually looking forward to spending my year simply learning, of absorbing the vast amounts of knowledge sitting between the pages of the books, tomes and scrolls that surround me. I revel in learning for its own sake, and not just because I have to find some way to keep Neville alive. To be able to do that is important to me and the change in reasons to study is more than welcome.

I am deeply entrenched in a chapter regarding the significance of numbers in nature, particularly Fibonacci’s series and the Golden Ratio, in relation to elemental magic in alchemy, when I sense him settle in front of me. I stiffen. Slowly, deliberately, I look around. There are at least seven long, unoccupied tables in just the isolated area in which I’m sitting. Why, then, did Harry Potter choose to sit at my table? Gritting my teeth, I hunch further over my book, determined to ignore him. I’m not going to say anything to him. He isn’t here.

Harry Potter is not invading my sanctuary.

The next ten minutes are nearly unbearable. To say that I’m aware of him would be the understatement of the century. The slightest rustle of his clothes, the most minute movement in my peripheral, catches my attention. It’s around the twelfth minute that I realize that I’ve turned several pages without nary an idea about what I’ve read. But I’ll be damned before I turn back to where I started. I’ll not give Potter the satisfaction.

Another minute in and I can’t stand it anymore. I stare at the page unseeingly, wondering if I should risk it. Is Potter looking at me? Or has he given up on his staring and is looking elsewhere? Finally, finally, I sneak a quick peek at him.

Emerald eyes meet brown eyes, and he holds my gaze for a moment before allowing a slow smirk to stretch his features.

I fume, feeling as though I’ve lost somehow. Of course Harry Potter would make something like this a contest of who’s better!

“What do you want, Hadrian?” I ask him, not bothering to hide my irritation.

A frown crosses his face before his face returns to its usual passiveness. This time I smirk, happy to have evened the score. He hates, absolutely hates when I call him Hadrian. It’s why doing it is so damn satisfying.

“I just wanted to talk,” he replies, undaunted, refusing to rise to my baiting. “Since we’re partners and all. I think it would be beneficial to both of us to smooth things over; bury the hatchet so-to-speak."

I stare at him incredulously. The only hatchet I’m burying is right in Potter’s thick skull! After years of tormenting me, now he wants a truce? I don't realize I've said it aloud until he cocks his head at me.

"Torment is a strong word, Granger," he says smoothly, running slender fingers through artfully messy, raven locks. "Surely our little spats over the years have been mere footnotes in the epic saga of the Brightest Witch of Our Age."

It's in that moment that I remember why I hate Harry Potter so, as if I can ever forget. He is so manipulative, so Slytherin that it makes me want to send a well-placed Bombarda to his expressionless face. He does it artfully; using words, charm, and charisma to shape a situation however he wishes. I've seen him employ these tactics with teachers, and students alike. It's why he's able to control Slytherin with so little political bloodshed, even Slytherins from legacy households like Malfoy. He's truly a master at his craft. But I'm not that little girl he used to pick on anymore. Thankfully, our interaction during our sixth year was much less than the previous years. The much needed reprieve was more than enough time for me to come to terms with who I was both as a witch and the daughter of Muggles. It also helped me to determine what I will and won't tolerate from the Wizarding world and being treated like a second class citizen is not one of them. I've grown and it's time to show Harry Potter that.

Instead of his comments flustering me like they did in years past, I cross my arms and meet his gaze.

"Mere blips indeed," I agree flippantly, "but what can I say, 'boys will be boys'.

His eyes narrow on me, but I smile at him candidly. "You want to a truce but I wonder if you're able," I continue, musing aloud, "you've shown a remarkable lack of self-control where I’m concerned.”

It's something I realized over the summer. Potter has never pointedly plagued anyone like he has me. The question is why. It's something that I've pondered but found no solution to. Why is it me? Why am I always Potter's target?

He stares at me for a moment before smiling and surprisingly enough, it looks genuine.

"You've grown," he says, matter-of-factly. I ignore the implications of his words although inside I fume. I'm not his subordinate, we're equals. Yet a part of me can't fault him for his words. I've hardly been acting like his equal. It's almost as though I never recovered from the world-shattering revelations of blood prejudice during my entrance into the Wizarding World. Upon learning my 'place', I wilted and accepted whatever blood purists threw at me in silence, almost as though attempting to avoid any situation that even faintly resembled the multitude of conflicts that have plagued the Wizarding world throughout history. I forced myself to ignore the unjust treatment to maintain the peace. But it wasn’t my peace, it was their peace. I allowed myself to be treated like a second-class citizen in order to maintain a status quo that never should have been. But I swore to myself that I would not hold myself back any longer. I will turn the Wizarding World on its head before I continue to allow myself to be treated like trash.

I return the smile, although it's much less genuine. "You haven't," I respond cheerfully. I ignore the fact that if Potter becomes any more proficient in his Slytherin-ness, Neville, Ron and I may be trying to defeat him as the next Dark Lord. The thought is terrifying.

Potter smiles and nods approvingly. His appreciation chaffs, but I ignore it. The sooner we get this discussion over with, the sooner he'll be gone.

“I know you don’t want to make nice, but we don’t have much of a choice, Granger,” he answers cheerfully, getting to the point. “We have to uphold the expectations of the office and that means being civil to one another.”

I frown, because it’s true. The male and female seventh year students chosen to the Head position are lauded for their ability to work well together and be the leaders of the student body. They are expected to quell minor inter-house disputes objectively, serve on a disciplinary committee, make exemplary grades and even continue the bequest of Head post-Hogwarts success by earning laudable careers. Even if Voldemort and I were the respective heads for our year, we’d be expected to act courteously toward one another. Such is the legacy and importance of being Head Boy and Head Girl. Out of the whole year, in the most prestigious school of magic in Britain, only two students are chosen and they are mandated to lead extraordinary lives. The mantle is much heavier than people think and I’m feeling the pressure of it already.

"Then the burden is on you, isn't it?" I ask stonily.

"I suppose it is," he says wryly, sitting back lazily in the chair. I take a moment to study him. Truly he has grown from the boy he was six years ago. Now, despite his behavior, a man sits before me. He is nearly two meters tall with incredibly messy hair that would look horrible on anyone else, but somehow looks right on him. His green eyes are staggering. They are bright, vivid emeralds placed into a handsome face. As I study him, I am reminded that he is not just the ruler of Slytherin because of his political prowess, but also because he is so darned attractive. At least he is to the majority of the female population at Hogwarts. His behavior has made it very easy to ignore his startling looks.

He doesn't ignore my perusal. "Like what you see?" he asks, voice neutral.

"You're a very attractive devil, but I'm sure you know that," I say with a smile. "Too bad the inside is so rotten."

He laughs and I blink at him. I don't think that I've ever heard Harry Potter laugh before. Ever. And I don't appreciate how it affects me. A warm, and uncomfortable feeling shoots through my body at the heavy, but somehow light, sound.

"That is an extremely Granger thing to say, you know," he says, amusement still lingering in his voice. "Most girls don't care about my character as long as my face remains attractive."

"Well, I'm not 'most girls'," I reply, somewhat snootily.

He smiles again, "Obviously."

I shrug and fall silent as I realize that this is the first time that we are being truly civil to one another and not talking civil while saying horrible things to one another. It's strange and suspicious. Is this another one of Potter's acts? I wouldn't be the least bit surprised if it were. He's a chameleon. One thing Potter has never done is make himself look anything less than perfect. Even our dislike of one another is limited to the knowledge of the student body. The teachers, with the exception of perhaps, Dumbledore, has no clue that we have been feuding since first year. Potter likes to keep it that way.

I restrain a sigh. If only I didn't have to work with Potter. This year would be like the last; we would have minimal contact. Now, I'm going to see him everyday. For the fourth time this year, I question Dumbledore's choice.

"Wondering why your precious Boy-Who-Lived wasn’t named Head Boy?” he taunts quietly, tilting his head at me.

I grit my teeth. I will eat my own hair before I admit it to him, but in truth, I am. I’m more than curious about it and I know for a fact that Neville and Ron are also. Why didn’t Dumbledore make Neville Head Boy? After all Neville’s amazing deeds over the years, he’d be the obvious choice. So, why Potter?

“It’s not my place to question Dumbledore’s decision,” I reply shortly. “As Headmaster of Hogwarts, it’s his choice.” No matter how little sense it makes.

"Like usual, you Gryffindors are extremely self-absorbed," Potter says with a shake of his head, "do you really think Neville is the only person Dumbledore has taken under his very strange wing? Do you think Neville is the only student who has done anything of note in these last seven years? Why are you so sure your precious Boy-Who-Lived is the best choice?"

I frown at his words. I've never considered that Dumbledore may be mentoring anyone besides Neville. After all, who could be more important than the prophesied savior of Wizarding Britain? It may be an arrogant thought, but not untrue. And surely Potter isn't implying that Dumbledore is mentoring him. If he is, then why? Does Neville know? And if what Potter is implying is true, what in the world could Potter have done that could top defeating the Dark Lord three times before turning seventeen?

I simply stare at him. In no way do I think that Dumbledore has put all his cards on Neville, he's too practical for that, but surely plan B isn't sitting in the same Potions class? It's too big a jump from the little information Potter gave me. Dumbledore could be mentoring Potter for any number of reasons, and there's no guarantee that any of them have anything to do with the Dark Lord.

Shaking my head, I push the thought from my mind to ponder later. I do take note of the fact that Potter calls Neville by his first name as opposed to calling him Longbottom. It's a very telling action that brings to mind another conundrum. Neville and Potter have a strange relationship, one that the Hogwarts student body have given up trying to figure out. Unlike the open, and oftentimes violent animosity between Neville and Malfoy, Potter and Neville’s confrontations are much more civil. It confuses teachers and students alike. They’re almost frenemies, but I know Neville would give Bellatrix Lestrange a lap dance before admitting such a thing.

Well, Potter and I are not frenemies. We're just plain, old-fashioned enemies and I've spent more than enough time in his company.

"You've made your point, Potter," I say, waving a hand at him. "Run along now. I promise to play nice with the troll."

He smiles, but stands, grabbing the books he carelessly tossed on the table earlier.

"That's all I ask," he says graciously, as though I were the problem. "Oh, and Granger?" he says, smirk firmly in place as his nods pointedly at me, "you might want to read that chapter again. We both know you have absolutely no idea what it says."

I glare at him as he turns to leave, but before he can, an impulse strikes me.

My Gryffindor courage roars.

I speak.

"Why me?"

He stills so suddenly that it's strange.

I’m not sure what I’m asking; if I’m asking why he hates me, or why he decided to make a target out of me, or something that’s neither one of those. It hardly matters because any answer he gives me will be something; something to understand why he’s treated me the way he has for all these years. It’ll give answers to questions I’ve had since meeting him six years ago.

The air is heavy and we are silent for a long, tense moment. Then, he speaks.

"Because you don't belong," he says finally and there is such conviction in his voice that my eyes widen.

The silence following his words is nearly deafening. I stare at his back, but he doesn’t turn around. I freeze, air trapped in my chest. Finally, it forces itself into my lungs. The spell is broken at my strangled inhale, and then he is gone; sweeping out of the area as quickly and quietly as he entered.

I sit there for a long time, all thoughts of studying extinguished.

You don't belong. I shake my head in a vain effort to dislodge the words from my head. It doesn't matter what Harry Potter thinks. I'm a witch and I will show him and every other racist knob that very fact until they have no choice but to acknowledge, even in their minds, that Muggleborns have a right to be in the Wizarding World.

Slowly, I gather my books to make my way to the Heads Common room, a space that I share with Harry Potter.

Taking another deep breath, I square my shoulders.

I won't let Potter get me down this year. I know that no matter how much I tell myself not to let the words hurt, the sting from such hateful words is inevitable. But it's okay. Every barb, every put-down, every muttered remark will be the fuel that launches me to new heights. And on the day that I achieve my goal, not only will I thank my friends and family, but I will thank every pure blood extremist there is for their support in making me a splendid witch.

End Chapter One

Chapter Two: Colloportus

Walkers With the Dawn

Being walkers with the dawn and morning,

Walkers with the sun and morning,

We are not afraid of night,

Nor days of gloom,

Nor darkness--

Being walkers with the sun and morning.

— Langston Hughes


	2. Descendo

**[Deh-SEN-doh]**  Causes the target to move downward

The next day is Monday and the first day of classes have passed by smoothly. Well, they have for me at least. To Neville and Ron’s horror, the professors have proven that they can be even tougher this year than they were last year. The amount of work they’ve saddled us with this week alone is criminal to my best friends. Although Neville and Ron think that their lives are over, I’m anticipating a challenge that doesn’t involve dodging Unforgivable curses.

I would have liked to spend some time with Neville and Ron after class, but my duties as Head Girl called. Now that the first years know what to expect in their coursework, I am required to further situate them to Hogwarts itself. After the preliminary viewing of their new home yesterday, the Heads are mandated to give the first years a more detailed tour of the castle. Showing the first years the allowed and restricted sections is uneventful as all of them, even those born to magical families, are too awed by the incredible wonders of Hogwarts to cause trouble. No, that boldness will come later. 

Potter took the Slytherins and the Ravenclaws while I took the Gryffindors and Hufflepuffs, as is custom. However, I make a mental note to talk to Potter about this later on. I do not want these first years to fall into the iron-clad alliances prevalent at Hogwarts, at least not yet. Next time, I will take the Ravenclaws with the Gryffindors and Potter will take the Slytherins and Hufflepuffs. I will even insist on taking the Slytherins while he takes the Gryffindors. It’s important to me that these students understand that although they are in different houses, they all belong to the same school. Unfortunately, this simple truth is something that many of the current students have forgotten. 

Finally, we are finished and the first-years disperse to go about their way with a new respect for the wonders—and dangers—present at Hogwarts. I nod at the prefects and after a few words of thanks, dismiss them. It’s been a long day and if they’re anything like me, they’re more than ready to retire. However, it’s not to be. I am only able to walk a few steps toward the Heads dorm when I am hailed. I turn at the sound of my name. 

It’s Professor McGonagall and trailing her is Zola Keita. An eyebrow raises as my interest peaks, but I quickly school my expression into one of pleasantness. It’s not difficult to do as Professor McGonagall’s face is alight with a rare smile.

“Professor,” I greet her with genuine gladness. Minerva McGonagall is truly one of my favorite professors here at Hogwarts. Being under her leadership as Head of Gryffindor House has exposed her to many dangers and situations that would have shaken even the strongest individual. Keeping Neville alive these last few years have truly grayed her hair, yet she’s still able to look upon us with warmth. To my good fortune, I’ve managed to burrow myself into the stern heart of the matron of Gryffindor and I could not be more pleased that I have. Behind the strictness and no-nonsense demeanor lies a woman who has truly lived a life. Her wisdom and compassion have comforted me many a night through the years and I more than welcome the sight of her. 

“Ms. Granger,” Professor McGonagall says warmly upon reaching me. “How was your holiday?”

My smile softens. “It was good,” I reply, with a nod. And it was. I missed my parents terribly and getting to spend time with them was more than welcome; it was needed. I know that my entrance to Hogwarts, to the Wizarding World, was extremely difficult for them. They expected me to graduate from Cambridge or Oxford after completing Form College, all while abiding in their loving company. That changed when I received the letter from Hogwarts. Now, they struggle with my absence, the newness of my life, and the fact that there is much that I cannot share with them. It is only their love for me that has allowed our relationship to remain close, and I try to help by taking every opportunity to visit them. 

Professor McGonagall nods. It’s unnecessary for her to ask further questions as she is privy to it all. 

“As you know, this is our new student, Zola Keita,” the Professor says, turning to the student standing next to her. “A transfer of any kind, much less a seventh year, is highly unusual. Therefore, I would like to entrust her to you.” 

Inwardly, I sigh. So much for resting. However, I quickly disregard the thought and mentally fortify myself. I’m Head Girl, it’s my job to deal with unexpected situations. McGonagall turns to Zola Keita and I finally have the opportunity to study her a bit more closely since her arrival in the Great Hall. Her appearance is no less striking in the evening light. Only now, Keita’s expression is blank… and she’s staring straight at me. My eyebrow raises a little at the blatant action, but I say nothing about it.

Professor McGonagall turns to her. “Ms. Keita, this is Hermione Granger, Head Girl of Hogwarts. She will give you a personal tour of the school and answer any questions that you may have. You are in quite capable hands.”

Zola nods, her gaze never leaving me. It’s bordering on rudeness and I’m quite curious as to why she’s staring at me so blatantly. What’s more interesting is that Zola Keita is receiving a personal tour. It’s not enough that she was allowed to transfer here in her seventh year of school, but now she’s receiving more special treatment? The more I ponder it, the more curious I am about her identity. Her mere presence here is an enormous mystery that I have not forgotten. However, the professors have not shown any indication that she is dangerous or that she should be watched. It’s the only reason I haven’t made it my business to find out who Zola Keita is. By now, the staff of Hogwarts has learned to be suspicious of strange elements that could hurt Neville. 

I’ll ask Professor McGonagall about it later. For now, all I can do is show Zola around the school. I nod at the Gryffindor matron, acknowledging her words. Professor McGonagall nods in approval before leaving us. I watch her go before returning my gaze to Zola. She’s still staring at me.

I frown, beginning to feel more than uncomfortable with her actions. However, I try to use humor to address it. “Is there something on my face?” I ask lightly, a faint smile stretching my features.

She stares at me for a moment longer before shaking her head. “No,” she says absently, walking up to me, moving so close that I take a step back in alarm. “You’re just really pretty.”

My eyes widen in shock and disconcertment, even as I register the slight hint of an unfamiliar accent. “Excuse me?” I say, unable to hide my surprise.

“I said that you’re pretty,” she repeats, gaze running over me, “and your hair is glorious. Why are you wearing it like that? Were you too busy to do it?”

I stare at her, mouth opening and closing like a fish. I’m not quite sure what to say.

“You think I’m pretty?” I finally ask in amazement. It’s probably not the best question to ask considering the circumstances, but it’s the one that comes out.

“You’re gorgeous,” she says, matter-of-factly. “I’m just not sure why you’re walking around with your hair looking like a damn owl’s roost.”

Immediately, and without my leave, my hand flies to my hair. I pat the massive cloud and sure enough, it’s a bit matted and very tangled, the same as it always is. So, yes, it probably does look like a bird’s nest. But couldn’t she have put it more gently?

“I’ve never done it,” I say finally, feeling a weird sense of surreality at the strangeness of the conversation. “I’ve always worn it like this.”

Her stare turns from contemplative to disbelieving. “You’ve never done your hair? You walk around looking like this all the time?” The disdain in her voice makes me frown and raises my hackles. 

“I’ve just never had time!” I exclaim, wondering how, _how_ I’ve gotten into an argument with a strange witch about my hair of all things!“I have more important things to do like studying and fulfilling my duties.” Keeping Neville alive takes up quite a bit of time too, but I refrain from saying so. 

“Those things are important,” she agrees with a nod. “But your appearance is not something that can be taken lightly. It is one of your greatest assets and you’re neglecting it.”

I frown. It’s not the first time I’ve heard this and I resent it just as much now as I did then.

“Men are not required to pay so much attention to their appearance,” I reply stiffly, annoyed. “Why are women forced to play dress up to be considered worthy of consideration?”

Zola lips purse as she nods. “It’s an unfortunate circumstance,” she concedes easily. “But it’s the reality that we have to work with. Appearance is key. Would you respect Professor McGongall if she walked into your classroom looking like she just rolled out of bed? Although women are held to a higher standard of dress, that is slowly changing. If you notice, men are now starting to be held responsible for their looks. Think about the most impressive young men in Hogwarts. Would you say that they are well groomed?”

Unbidden, my mind flies to Harry Potter. If there is anyone who looks like they’ve walked off the cover of _Fashion the Witch Way_ , it’s him. Everything on him is immaculate. The only part of him that has escaped perfection is his hair. It seems to be a direct pipeline to his character because it is as untamable as Potter himself. But even that seems to have been carefully considered in the grand scheme of his style, seeming to add daring to a man who is physically flawless is every other aspect. 

I paused to consider it. 

“That’s … not untrue,” I admit reluctantly. I don’t want to be wrong about this issue, but I’m woman enough to admit when I am. In this case, she has a point. However, it’s not quite equal and I tell her so. “But I don’t think that Potter has to put hours a week into caring for his hair.”

The amount of time I used to spend doing my hair is not an exaggeration. There was a time when I did attempt to tame the mass of hair on my head. It took so much time and effort that I felt as though all I was doing was studying and fighting my hair. To add insult to injury, my hair always won. No amount of product, magical or otherwise, could tame the thickness and sheer length of my hair. So finally, I just gave up. 

Zola nods sympathetically, studying my hair. “I can help you with that, Hermione.”

My eyes slightly narrow and I cock my head. “Why would you do that?” I ask curiously. 

“Because it’s a shame for all of your beauty to go to waste,” she says as though it’s obvious. “And also …” she pauses and shakes her head, “… there’s something about you. I want us to be friends.”

“Friends?” I ask dubiously. “But you don’t know me.”

She looks me in the eyes and speaks. “I don’t now, but I want to.” She states it softly, but with utter conviction. “I _want_ to know you.” 

I pause and now it’s my turn to stare. _She wants to know me._ I continue to gaze at her even as a strange warmth fills me. _She wants to know me_. Has anyone ever said those words to me? _She wants to know me_. Has anyone ever sought my friendship in this manner before? 

No… no one has. 

Before I realize what I’m doing, I am nodding. “Okay,” I say slowly, “let’s give it a shot.” And suddenly I realize, I really want to. I’ve never been close to a woman my age before and I’d really like to experience the sisterhood that I’ve seen, but have never been apart of, in Gryffindor.

She nods in approval, a grand smile lighting up her features. “Good, then we’ll make it our business to schedule time to chat. But for now, let’s tour this school, yes? I’d love to see what all the hullabaloo is about.”

I can’t help but return her smile. Her energy is contagious and this conversation, though strange, has invigorated me. 

“Yes,” I agree with a nod. “Let us begin.” 

The first place I show her is part of Hogwart’s outer estate, specifically the Great Lake, which borders the Great Hall. Although the acreage that belongs to Hogwarts is immense, the only place that students are allowed to go unsupervised is the Quidditch fields and certain parts of the Lake. All other places are off-limits due to the dangers there like the Whomping Willow and the Shrieking Shack, unless accompanied by Hogwarts staff. 

Zola doesn’t question the presence of so many dangerous entities around a school and I attribute it to her being a pureblood. It’s only Muggleborns that find fault with it. It’s one of the many cultural differences between those who grow up with magic and those who don’t. Dangers from magical creatures and spells are a constant for Wizarding children. They are taught the dangers and are expected to act accordingly. Thus, they see no issue with large monsters and carnivorous creatures being near school-age children. But these types of dangers aren’t present in the muggle world and so are scandalous to Muggleborns. It is difficult for Muggleborns to come from a world where strangers are considered the greatest danger, to one where walking in the wrong place could result in being a meal. It is something that isn’t addressed nearly enough in the Wizarding world. A lot of such cultural confusion could be expelled if more effort was put into properly acclimating Muggleborns into their new environment. After all, they are quite literally entering a new world. Sadly, no such efforts have been made.

Zola is quiet as she studies the lake and it’s difficult to get an idea of how she feels about it. Usually, there is a combination of awe and joy on the faces of those who see the sights I’m showing Zola, but as of now, nothing seems to have wowed her. Nevertheless, we remain there for a few moments more before moving inside to the Great Hall. I smile when we reach it, familiar feelings of warmth flooding over me just by being here. I’ve made so many amazing memories here, that just being in this place makes me glad. Zola looks around closely as we enter. 

“The Great Hall is the main gathering area for everyone in the school. It’s where students receive their meals and daily owl posts. Special events are held here such as the Sorting Ceremony and the Hallowe’en Feast. The rare guest speaker also presents here. The Great Hall is large enough to hold all students as well as main staff and guests. The Hall has tall walls that reach up to the ceiling, which is covered in candles and enchanted to look like the skies above…”

I am just warming up to my spiel when Zola catches my eye. She looks at me in amusement. “You sound like an automaton,” she says with a laugh. “Did you memorize a textbook or something?” 

I frown as heat crawls up my neck. Of course I memorized a book; _Hogwarts, a History_ is one of my absolute favorites. But how did she know? Do I truly sound like Professor Bins, like one of my more gentle critics cautioned me? Surely not! At the slightly offended look on my face, Zola busts into laughter. I pout at her for a moment before my face slowly relaxes into a smile. It actually is pretty funny when I think about it. If I truly do sound like Professor Bins, then that’s definitely something I need to rectify sooner rather than later. 

“It’s a great book,” I retort with a grin. 

She huffs quietly before turning her gaze to the ceiling. “That’s a nice bit of magic,” she says, tilting her head. “Cute.”

An eyebrow rises at her words. ‘Cute,’ is not usually how people describe Hogwarts. It makes me wonder what she’s seen if she isn’t impressed with one of Hogwart’s most wondrous sights. It’s a bit frustrating. The more I know about Zola, the deeper the mystery is. And I’ve never been good at ignoring things I don’t understand.

We spend a few more moments in the Great Hall before leaving. We’ve just exited the large doors when my second worst enemy appears with his goons. It’s Draco Malfoy and his faithful henchmen, Crabbe and Goyle. Inwardly, I groan. It took me much less time to learn to deal with Malfoy than it did to deal with Potter. Now, it’s to the point where very few things that fall out of Malfoy’s mouth even sting; he’s never been known for either creativity or originality. But I don’t want a confrontation in front of Zola. I want her to get a good impression of Hogwarts and the students here. Running into Malfoy is the worst thing that could possibly happen. I never thought I’d be able to say anything positive about Harry Potter, but at the very least, he has a sense of decorum. Running into Potter in this situation would elicit a scant disapproving glance, but little more. Malfoy is completely different; for him, there’s never a wrong time to harass another wizard. 

I swear I can see Malfoy’s eyes twinkle when he sees us. His eyes light first on me and then on Zola. Immediately, the customary Malfoy sneer stretches his face and this time, I know it’s not completely because of me. Malfoy hates Zola Keita and it’s for a very simple reason; she’s a pureblood that had the audacity to be sorted into Hufflepuff. The ideals of Pureblood supremacy and privilege are much more complex than I realized and I’ve learned more than I’ve ever wantedto know about it over the years. One of the things that Purebloods hate the most is when one of their own does something that is perceived to have insulted their most holy lineage. Getting sorted into the “worst” house is one such act. 

“Look boys,” Malfoy says loudly, “the Mudblood found a new Pureblood to latch onto.”

I stare at Malfoy, bored, and although his words do rankle slightly, I don’t rise to his bait.

“Clever as always, Malfoy,” I respond calmly. “ But I’m in the middle of my duties so if you could please—”

“Look, guys,” Malfoy says, voice mocking, “do you see the evidence of Hogwart’s greatness? It can even teach a monkey to speak!”

I stiffen, barely noticing that Zola has done the same. _Monkey_ ; did Malfoy just call me a fucking _monkey_? Does he realize that in the known Muggle world, calling people of color ‘monkeys’ is an incredibly offensive racial slur? Whether he knows or not, I know that he is just as likely to care about calling me a racial slur as he does a blood status slur. In that moment, a cold fury begins to grow within me. What the hell makes Draco Malfoy feel as though he can speak to me in this manner? And why the hell have I taken this abuse for so many years? 

But Malfoy continues to open the witless chasm in the middle of his head, heedlessly and indiscriminately spewing poison with each syllable. He turns his attention to Zola. 

“Although you’re in the Dump House, you’re still a pureblood,” Malfoy says, his sneer deepening. “And you might not understand how things are done around here, so I’ll enlighten you. It’s best to stay away from the wrong sort, like Muggleborn filth. We’re all too old to play in the mud.” Malfoy smirks and Crabbe and Goyle chuckle, no doubt impressed by Malfoy’s ‘cleverness.’ 

I feel my face heat at his words even as my temper reaches the breaking point. Not even a year ago, I would have issued a witty retort and then walked away, considering myself the bigger person by doing so. But that was the old me; that was the Hermione that sought to keep the peace at the cost of her self-esteem. New Hermione isn’t going to take this shite. Not anymore. 

Before I can open my mouth and _finally_ put Malfoy in his place. Zola holds up a hand, stopping me. I turned to her, annoyed; was she trying to stop me? I wasn’t going to let her. One thing I’ve learned is that Purebloods stick up for Purebloods, even if they despise one another. Sometimes it’s conscious but most times it’s not. They’ll shut down a Muggleborn in a second in order to protect someone that they perceive as “their own.” Although I hate to admit it, there have been times when both Neville and Ron have dismissed the smaller prejudices and micro-aggressions of Purebloods as ‘harmless.’ Must be nice to be able to view systematic discrimination and continuous contempt as innocent. I haven’t known Zola for more than a couple of hours, but I was hoping she wouldn’t be that way, that she would stand up for right and justice no matter what. I’ve had enough of the clubs and cliques that people use as excuses to allow wrong-doers to do as they like. 

I quiet, watching intently to see what Zola will do. She crosses her arms and stares at Malfoy, her face expressionless. She says nothing, only tilts her head and studies him. Malfoy frowns as the silence lengths and I hesitate, unsure of what to do. So far, Zola seems quite talented in making silences as uncomfortable as humanly possible. 

Finally, she speaks. “You do think you’re hot stuff, don’t you,” she says with a faint smile. “But let me tell you a secret, oh pale one.”She walks toward Malfoy and her steps are sure and steady as she nears him. Malfoy’s frown deepens and he clearly dislikes Zola’s actions, but he refuses to show weakness and retreat. Then, Zola is in front of him. She leans over and whispers something into his ear. When she pulls away, Malfoy is paler than I’ve ever seen him. He looks at her in surprise and utter confusion. Zola’s stare bores into him and his eyes widen before he looks away, refusing to meet her gaze. Crabbe and Goyle seem unsure as to how to act. So am I. 

Malfoy’s eyes dart to Zola for another second before muttering something unintelligible under his breath and quickly walking away. Crabbe and Goyle follow clumsily in his wake. I stand there incredulously, confused as to what the hell just happened. Did Zola Keita manage to do something that few have done in their time at Hogwarts? Had Zola just shut Malfoy down? I stare at the place where Malfoy disappeared before turning back to Zola. She actually ran Malfoy off, I just have no idea _how_. 

“What did you just do?” I ask in disbelief. “What did you _say_?”

She smiles and shrugs. “I just told him that he thinks much too highly of himself,” she says, a deeply amused gleam in her eyes. 

I stare at her, mouth slightly open. “You’re not going to tell me, are you?” I ask finally.

She smiles again. “No, ma’am,” she says cheerfully, “though I expect you’ll find out soon enough.” She lets out a laugh, clearly enjoying whatever she’d done to Malfoy. She turns to me. “Shall we move on?” she asks jauntily. 

I nod, seeing that it’s useless to pursue the matter further. Zola has made it clear that she’s saying nothing more. 

“I’m going to figure you out eventually,” I say easily as we continue to our next destination. 

“I hope so,” Zola answers immediately, her face suddenly serious. “I wish it very much. But would it be any fun if I just spilled everything at the beginning?”

Letting out a small laugh, I shake my head. “I suppose not,” I murmur, smiling at her. She seems relieved that I’m not angry and that makes me relax even further. Learning patience is growth on my part. I’ve been known to be dogged in my pursuit of matters that I wish to investigate but thankfully, age has brought a little wisdom. Zola clearly wants me to know who she is and is willing to tell me, I just have to wait for the right time. 

That’s fine with me. It looks like it’s going to be quite the adventure. As long as it doesn’t involve dodging curses meant to melt my insides, I’m willing. It’s quite a nice change of pace. 

#*#*#*#*#

It’s nearly evening time when I finally reach my room. 

Showing Zola the school was a novel experience, one that I cannot stop thinking about. She is nothing like I’d thought she would be and I enjoyed her company very much. It’s strange. I never realized until this moment the sheer amount of time I spend with Neville and Ron. They’re my best friends, of course, so it’s only reasonable that I spend the most time with them. But now, in hindsight, I realize that I spend _all_ of my time with them. I don’t really have any friends outside of them and I’ve never had any girl friends at all, not even in the Muggle world. To spend time with Zola and then enjoy it so much was nice. Very nice. 

I haven’t found anything untoward about her thus far, so, perhaps it would be good to cultivate a relationship outside of Neville and Ron. Merlin knows that they have other friends besides me. The only thing that bothers me is her confrontation with Malfoy. Malfoy and his minions despise non-Slytherin and non-Ravenclaw Purebloods nearly as much as he hates Muggleborns. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if he specifically sought Zola out to harass her and show her how low she was. But what could she have possibly said to make Malfoy back down like that? 

Finally, reaching the gargoyle guarding the Head common room, I give the password, “Uncommon sense.” It’s not the most secure password in the world, and I make a mental note to change it soon. 

The gargoyle moves immediately and I walk in, only to cringe at the sight before me. My previously neutral colored common room has now been defiled with green and black. It’s _everywhere_ ; the chairs, the walls, even the rug is forest green and black. I gape at my surroundings, even as my temper begins to rise. Of course _he_ would redecorate the room without my consent or taking into account that I obviously would not approve of it looking as though Salazar Slytherin threw up in here. 

He’s doing this to provoke me, I know he is. But _I won’t_ take his bait. Taking a deep breath, I lift my wand. Pooling the energy within me, I extend it through my wand, directing it where I want it to go. I smile as a chair, then a portion of the rug re-colors into the rich gold and red of Gryffindor house. And it’s beautiful. I absolutely love the colors for some reason. _Love_ them. I wear these colors under my robes almost exclusively, leading many to believe that I am in love with Gryffindor. While I do hold great affection for my house, it’s not for that reason that I wear these colors. I have no clue why I like them so much, I just know that as soon as I saw them, I knew that they were mine. 

Then, it’s done. I cross my arms as I survey my efforts. Now, half of the room is red and gold, and the other half is green and black; an acceptable compromise.

“You seem quite pleased with yourself,” a voice says, interrupting my admiration of my handiwork. 

I look up and there he is, my nemesis, standing in the doorway, surveying me with unblinking eyes. I struggle to hide a frown. I knew that I’d be sharing my quarters with Harry Potter, but seeing him here, in our mutual common room, is a completely different matter. It’s much too personal and _entirely_ unpleasant. I don’t want to think about the fact that we occupy the same country, much less the same living space. Thankfully, I was able to avoid him before, but I harbor no illusions that this will last. We are, for all intents and purposes, roommates. 

Merlin, help me. 

“I am,” I respond quietly, as I move to my room. Just because we are forced to share a dorm doesn’t mean that I have to _talk_ to him. There is absolutely no reason to linger here. All I need to do is shower, collapse on my bed, and pretend that I am in these rooms by myself, which is what I will be doing for the remainder of this year. Nothing in my immediate or future plans even remotely involve Harry Potter. 

“You were late again today, Granger,” Potter says, crossing his arms and leaning against the doorpost of his room.

“I’m aware, Potter,” I respond politely, turning slightly to him, careful to keep my voice light, “and I do apologize. I’ll try to make sure it doesn’t happen again.” However much it niggles me to say so, I was late yesterday because of a personal issue and I was late today because one of the first-years got lost. It was inappropriate and regardless that it’s Potter it’s directed to, an apology is not unwarranted. 

He is quiet for a moment before speaking again. “You’re not going to be as fun to play with, are you?” he asks and the very real disappointment in his voice makes me roll my eyes. 

“I should hope not,” I say stonily, staring hard at him. “I’m not quite sure why you take so much pleasure in bothering someone who wants absolutely nothing to do with you.”

He pauses, the small smirk fading from plump lips. Cocking his head, he stares at me. 

“I learned from the best, Granger,” he answers softly, eyes intent on me.

It makes me frown. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s referring to me. 

“When have I ever chased after people who don’t want me around, Potter?” I ask curtly. 

He continues to stare at me, even as he shakes his head slowly. The look on his face annoys me. I have no idea what in Merlin’s name Potter is going on about. Though I’m loathe to admit it, Potter’s power of perception are second to none. It’s not something noticed by many, but it is something that I realized over the years. It’s one of the reasons why he’s such a formidable opponent. He notices so much and is constantly analyzing everything. And despite how good he is at it, something tells me that it doesn’t come to him naturally; it’s something he’s trained himself to do. It’s obvious that if he hadn’t been diligent in mastering this skill, then he’d be just as oblivious, inattentive and absentminded as Neville and Ron can be. But in this instance, he is wrong. I haven’t had any true friends besides Ron and Neville for years and I’ve never sought to be with anyone but them. So … who?

I shake my head, refusing to spend even one more second being lead around by Harry Potter.

“I’m pretty sure that whatever you’re thinking is absolutely fascinating and completely legitimate to you,” I say, not bothering to hide how little I care about his words. “But if you’re done, I have things to do.” Like sleep. Or study. Or sleep. 

“The only thing we need to talk about is the ground rules for our common living space,” I continue. “Getting them out of the way will mean that I avoid getting sent to Azkaban for throwing an Unforgivable at you.” Although I’m exaggerating a little, I’m not joking. Potter has pushed me quite far several times over the years of our acquaintance and I don’t want that to happen ever again. I am determined to make this a great year even if that means playing nice with Potter. This is my attempt to preemptively address any problems Potter and I may have down the line. As long as he stays out of my way, we should both get through this school year unscathed.

Without another word, I turn and enter my room, leaving him standing in his doorway. Pausing, I turn back around and lean around the the doorpost to speak one last time. 

“Oh, and I’ll be doing the decorating from now on, Potter,” I say, with an aerobic smile. “Your skills are absolute shite.”

Throwing him one last mockingly sympathetic look, I slip into my room, closing the door firmly behind me. 

#*#*#*#*#

For years we’ve heard that the last year of Hogwarts is worse than the first six years combined. We thought it was an exaggeration, because how could that possibly be true? Now, we know the truth of it. The seventh year of study at Hogwarts school of Witchcraft and Wizardry is even worse than that; it’s absolute hell. And I couldn’t love it more. 

I lean over my book with feverish eyes as I begin study of the twenty foot long scroll on the ancient Chinese practice of advanced transmutations and transfigurations. Thankfully, I completed the first few weeks of Hogwart’s coursework over the summer, so I have a bit of time for a little light reading. The scroll is not a complete work by any means, most of the text being a treasure guarded jealously by its keepers. Nevertheless, it’s an incredibly fascinating read. The Chinese Wushi’s method of approaching transfiguration is completely different from British Wizards and I wonder why some of the methods, tested and verified by more than a millennium, has not been incorporated into Wizarding Britain. In addition, some of the text is difficult to understand due to the cultural difference. It’s times like these that wish that there was more international cooperation in the Wizarding world. I would love to talk to a Wushi and gain more understanding about this topic… 

A strange sound catches my attention. Looking up, I fight to hold in a sigh. Ron has blatantly turned his scrolls into a pile of pillows and is preceding to drool all over them. At least Neville is trying to fool me. He too is staring at his homework scrolls, only he hasn’t blinked in some time. I’m pretty sure he’s asleep too. 

“Will you wake up, Ronald?” I ask, annoyed, shaking my head as my voice jolts Neville awake. “Your scrolls won’t be legible if you continue to use them as serviettes.” 

Ron raises his head slow, before rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Then what else would I use them for?” he asks faintly, a very real look of confusion on his face.

I shake my head in annoyance, though I feel a bit of amusement, despite myself. What else indeed. “Perhaps you should read them,” I say with acid sweetness. With a wave of my wand, the books fly from under his head, stacking neatly in front of him. He yelps in protest as his head hits the table, but I ignore him. “NEWTs are this year and it’s important to get a head start on them.”

“Well, Hermione,” Neville says easily, a conspiratorial smile on his face. “That’s what we have you for.” 

I sigh, amusement fading in the face of my growing irritation. Even’s Neville’s smile isn’t enough to ward it off. “While that’s flattering, Neville, I can’t take the NEWTs for you. If you wish to become a Herbologist for the Ministry of Magic, you have to be the best. You know Herbology positions are scarce.”

“Oh come on, Hermione,” Ron says in exasperations. “He’s the Boy-Who-Lived for Merlin’s sake. Do you really think that the Ministry _won’t_ hire him?”

I frown. I’ve heard this sentiment from Ron before, and although Neville has never vocally agreed with him, he’s never disagreed either. We all know that what Ron says is true, but it’s not a good practice for Neville to skate through life on his title. He needs to earn what he gets and show everyone that he’s not _that guy_.

“Ronald,” I begin, voice lowering dangerously.

“Hermione!” Neville interrupts, shoving a scroll toward me. “What does this mean?” 

I glare at Ron for a few seconds longer before allowing Neville to draw my attention away. I begin to explain the problem to Neville. Not even a minute in, his eyes glaze over. I stop speaking, trying to quell my frustration. I love my friends, I really do, but I wish they were more diligent in studying. I mean, really; don’t they understand how important this is?

Subconsciously, my hand roams to my belly, rubbing the scars there. Don’t Neville and Ron understand how close the fight was last year? I know that they don’t, and that’s my fault for protecting them. But they _do_ know that while they escaped with minimal injuries, I was hospitalized for nearly a month afterward. Didn’t that strike them as strange? Although they did ask about the extent of my injuries and about what happened after they were knocked out that final day, they were too easily convinced to let it go. Even at the time, I wish they’d shown more concern for me. 

With a shake of my head, I refocus on the present, trying to quell the nerves that threaten to rise as memory of that time resurfaces. If I have my way, I will blot that time from my memory, _forever_. But that incident made me realize something important; I can’t keep bearing the burden of the fight against Voldemort by myself. Ron and Neville may escape the next one, but it’s pretty clear that I won’t. Neville and Ron have to start carrying their weight and getting them to study is the best way I know how. Quite a bit of the things that we learned in class have helped us in the field, however, Neville and Ron don’t realize that because in all their years at Hogwarts, they haven’t put enough effort into their schoolwork to actually _learn_. If they had just paid attention in class, then they too would know what to do during our missions and I wouldn’t be littered with scars right now. 

It’s why I created the journals. I spent all summer on them, making one for each of them. Hopefully, it’ll be enough. 

“Neville, Ron,” I say, reaching into my bag. “I have something for you.” 

They turn to look at me, but neither one of them look particularly excited. The last time I had something for them, it was a schedule detailing every second of their lives for the OWLs. This won’t be as bad, but it’s in the same vein; more study support material. 

The table shakes as the journals hit the table, belying their thin size. Neville and Ron’s eyes widen as the table groans under the weight of the journals. Even though I was able to find a spell to decrease the width, sadly, the immense weight is the same. It’s easier to manipulate space than force in this instance. 

“What’s that?” Neville asks weakly. 

“It’s my gift to you two,” I say with a smile, excitement beginning to build within me. “I spent all summer creating these for you. I even had to invent new spells to do so! It functions as not only a training manual tailored toward you and Ron, but a communication device, similar to Tom Riddle’s diary we found in second year…” I am five minutes into my description of the journals when a loud voice interrupts me. 

“Hey guys!” it says, echoing across the library. I turn quickly to the voice, only to see Ginny loping toward us with her confident stride, her arms loaded with books and scrolls. I scowl at how loud she is, but Ginny, as always, doesn’t care. She is truly a person who follows her own path and while that was something I admired when we were younger, now, it’s a source of frustration. Social graces are actually a good thing. Modifying one’s behavior in public is why civilization is civilized. I think somewhere along the line, Ginny forgot that. 

She gets to the table and releases her load carelessly. They carry a lot of dust and to my misfortune, most of it blows my way.

I look down at my soiled clothes and scowl at the youngest Weasley. “Thank you, Ginny. Now I’m covered in dust.”

“Sorry!” she says and although I’m not happy, I let it go because she sounds truly repentant. Her next words, though, totally destroys that.

“I’m surprised you’re so upset, Hermione,” she says curiously. “I thought Muggles didn’t care about being dirty. They have that sport called… dungy? Rudgy?” 

I bristle at the ignorance and at the fact that she _jus_ t said out of her mouth that _Muggles don’t care about being dirty_. Not to mention the fact that _I’m not a Muggle_! “I’m not surprised you made such a mistake,” I reply with a disarming smile. “After all, everyone can’t be like Wizards who must be incredibly violent since they have a sport where they beat the shit out of each other with wooden clubs.“

“Hermione!” Neville says, turning to me in surprise. Even Ron looks at me with wide eyes, but I meet their gazes stonily. How it is that they are willing to allow anything, no matter how offensive, to drop out of their mouths about Muggles and Muggleborns, but are scandalized when the same is done about Wizards? The hypocrisy is so thick that I nearly choke on it. 

“I’m sure that Ginny didn’t mean it that way,” Neville says defensively. “How would we know what Muggles do?”

“Well, Muggles are people and generally, people like being clean,” I respond, glaring at them. I turn to Ginny. “In the future, I’d appreciate it if you’d take a moment and think about what you say, Ginny. Making unkind generalization about any group, much less a generalization based off of a sport of all things, is offensive and most likely erroneous.” 

They stare at me, unable to say anything. Ginny’s eyes are wide, but I look her in the face, unblinkingly. Finally, she looks away. We fall into an awkward silence, but I refuse to feel guilty. It’s time that they had a taste of their own medicine. 

“So…” Ron says, obviously trying to defuse the tension. “Ginny, are you here to study?” 

“Yeah,” she says, releasing a long-suffering sigh, after darting a quick glance at me. “I absolutely have to do well this year. Last year was such a bust and I barely passed. Mom has pretty much threatened that if I don’t do better this year, she’s pulling me from the Quiddith team and I’d rather fight Death Eaters than for that happen.” 

Neville looks at her strangely, even as Ron nods sympathetically. Of course, only Ron, a Quiddith fanatic, would think that fighting murderous blood purists would be preferable to sitting out of an aggressively violent sports game for a year. 

“I was also hoping that Neville could help me with a project that I have with Snape,” Ginny continues. 

“It’s Professor Snape,” I say reflexively. 

Ginny ignores me. 

“How would I be able to help you?” Neville asks quickly, before I can say anything more. 

“Well, I need a specific plant and of course, Snape, being the git that he is, wants a super rare one that is nearly impossible to find. I thought if anyone could help me, it’d be you,” she responds earnestly. 

“I might have it, but Hermione is the one who has the inventory of all the plant seeds I have,” Neville says with a shrug. “It’d be better to ask her.”

A flash of something goes across Ginny’s face. It’s so quick that I can’t quite discern what it is, but it was _something._ “You don’t mind, do you Herms?” Ginny says, eyes fluttering, mouth pouty.

“Please don’t call me that,” I say stiffly, mouth thinned. I hate the name and have asked Ginny several times to refrain from calling me that. 

“Oh come on, Hermione,” Ron says, dismissing it. “She didn’t mean anything by it.” 

“Although it is an ugly rendition of your name,” Neville says jokingly, though his eyes narrow slightly. 

I grit my teeth before deciding to let it go. I want to express to them all just how not-okay it is, but now is not the time to confront Ginny, especially about something like a nickname. I’ll find another time to emphasize to her that I will not answer to the name ‘Herms’ anymore. Calling me by my name is basic respect. 

But I’ll deal with it later. I have other things to do right now, like work on the invitations to my birthday party. 

Shaking my head, I move down toward the opposite end of the table. When it becomes clear that I’ve focused on something else, the conversation begins to flow around me.

So, I’m throwing a party; it’s definitely not my style, but it’s my eighteenth birthday! In the eyes of both the Muggle and Wizarding worlds, I’m now an adult. I want to do something special for my entrance into adulthood and a party sounded as good an idea as any. I haven’t really had the time to ask anyone else to the party as my only close friends are Neville and Ron. It doesn’t help that I don’t have anyone’s contact information and that my birthday is so close to the beginning of the year. It doesn’t matter, though. I’ve done all the planning and will do all the decorations myself; all the invitees need to do is show up. 

Since I’m going big, I might as well go all the way. I could have done the invitations by magic and I did for the most part, but I wanted to put a little something special on them as well. 

I’m putting the finishing touches on the last invitations when Trevor, a third year Ravenclaw, walks to the table. He looks hesitant and wide-eyed to be approaching the table of the Golden Trio, but a quick smile from me eases the tension in him.

“Miss Granger,” he says timidly. “You are needed by Professor Flitwick.” 

I nod at Trevor, acknowledging his words. Trevor shoots one last look at Neville before scurrying away. 

Standing, I gather my things. Neville and Ron have long since stopped studying and are rapturously listening to a story that Ginny is telling about Lincoln Toole, a fifth year Gryffindor. It sounds funny, but this is hardly the place or time. Then suddenly, I’m tired. I am quite over telling them what they should be doing. For Merlin’s sake, why is it so hard to get them to do what they need to do? 

I won’t press them anymore about studying for today, but there is something else that I need them to do. “Neville, Ron,” I say, passing the invitations to them. “Theses are the invitations to my birthday party; can you please hand them to the people addressed on the front before you go to your rooms tonight?”

“Yeah, of course,” Ron says absently. 

“You’re leaving?” Neville asks, turning to look at me and I resist the urge to look at him strangely. Did he not notice Trevor at all? 

Releasing a weary sigh, I nod. “Yes, I have Head Girl duties to attend to. I’ll see you guys later, yes?”

They nod, and I don’t have a chance to even move from the table before their attention is back on Ginny. Strangely enough, it stings a little. It’s always somewhat distressing how quickly I leave the sphere of their attention, but today, it seems to hurt a little more than in the past. Setting my jaw, I leave. 

However, I can’t help but look back before rounding the corner. Ron leans close from his side of the table as Neville and Ginny sit side by side. The couple have their arms around each other and Neville and Ron laugh heartily at whatever Ginny says to them. They look so happy and comfortable; a far cry from how they were with me ten minutes ago. The journals and invitations to my birthday party that I worked so hard to make lie in front of them, forgotten. They haven’t even opened their own invitations.

A strange, uncomfortable feeling burgeons in my belly. It feels awful and I don’t understand it. What’s happening right now? Why am I feeling this way? Ron and Neville are my best friends, so why does it feel like I’m being left out?

Shaking my head, I push the concerns away. It’s probably just nerves over my upcoming birthday party. Neville, Ron and I are the Golden Trio. We’ve been through things that would utterly shock our peers. Relationships, like anything else, has its highs and lows. We’re just in a low phase right now, but I have no doubt that it’ll get better. After all we’ve been through, there’s nothing that can break us up. Ever. 

End Chapter 2.

Chapter 3: Deprimo 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you really liked, please comment or kudos and I'll happily continue.


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